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Wizard’s Glen is located along a part of the Appalachian Trail that runs through the Berkshires in Western Massachusetts. Nestled in the hills of Dalton, this site sits along Gulf Road which starts at the intersection of High Street and Park Avenue in the Southeastern part of town. It’s a four-mile unpaved designated scenic road that looks more like a pathway.

As you traverse up the street the air seems to get cooler as you approach a high rocky ravine cut through flint rocks. The area narrows as huge boulders ascend skyward through the densely treed area. Other large rocks that have fallen among the boulders look like they’ve been dumped from the sky to fall where they may. A lot of the rocks are moss covered and the overgrowth of bushes and dense foliage take over the place. Even though, crevasses in the rubble are obvious….at least they were when we last visited the place.

There’s a local myth that claims over a 100 years ago a local man had been out hunting and was bringing home a deer he had gotten when a terrible thunderboomer hit the area. The rain was blowing sideways and the lightening was frequent. Not wanting to travel further that night, the man hung his quarry from a tree branch and went to find shelter under one of the overhanging monoliths. All of a sudden the place started lighting up. He watched as an evil spirit and its minions started dancing around, whirling themselves into a frenzy. Suddenly, an Indian girl was brought forth and heaved onto one of the large flat stones. All the demons charged at her with knives, killing her. As she turned her head away she caught the eyes of the hidden onlooker. He grabbed his Bible, lunged to his feet, and ordered the spirits to leave her alone. The scene then vanished in the next crash of thunder and everything was again dark. When the man rose to leave the next morning he believed it all to be a dream, but found someone, (or some things), had stolen his deer — and who else could it have been? Can the screams of the young girl still be heard on some dark, stormy evenings?

Hobomocko, the Algonquin spirit of death, is attributed to being the organizer of the human sacrifice made that terrible night. And the area already had a reputation for being a power spot for the Native American shamans who performed their invocations and rituals. Even now, the huge, flat, altar stone can still be seen. Some claim the red iron ore stains are really the spilled blood of many unfortunate others who became the ritual gift to a higher deity.

– ashanta

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